


Meet The Cats

by Zerubel



Series: Vaulting Over Expectations [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Beast Speech, Gen, i wanted to create a hybrid feel good trope monster so i did, i'm going to post scraps here until i have enough to put together in order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 09:44:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13656420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zerubel/pseuds/Zerubel
Summary: Harry is four when he is adopted by the local clowder of cats. WIP





	Meet The Cats

Harry is four when he is adopted by the local clowder of cats.

To be fair, they would have adopted him sooner but age four was when Petunia would finally shoo him outside for the first time with instructions to leave her alone and stop skulking around the house. Harry wandered aimlessly for an hour before he was discovered and led back to their yard. Mrs. Figg swiftly persuades Petunia that having Harry over at her house, ‘her little helper’, was such a _delight_ , and of course he must visit _every day._ The cats crowd around her feet and exude disapproval in the way only cats can. Petunia accepts the arrangement with ill grace, unhappy with the reminder of watchers both feline and human, and Arabella Figg becomes the guardian in all but name to a quiet too-thin little boy.

She becomes the reason he has regular meals, clean clothes, and a place to retreat if he so chooses.

(He does.)

When he is five and come more out of his shell, Mrs. Figg watches him play in the yard from her back porch. Harry’s having entire one-sided conversations, cheerfully gabbling to a crowd of her gathered cats and half-kneazles alike, carefully patting mud and dirt into shapes while they watched him solemnly. She’s only there to reassure the other mundane humans, really. No harm comes to a human a kneazle loves without them having a say in the matter.

When he turns six, however, he surprises her. Petunia shoos him out the door and immediately he charges across the street and tumbles through her open door into the living room. He makes a cheerful “ _prrt-prrt!_ ” noise at one of her cats, _exactly_ like the noises the kittens would make, and to her shock her grumpiest old lady cat immediately purred in response while rubbing her cheeks across his face. The others get up from their lounging positions and came to drape themselves over and around him on the floor instead.

 _Isn’t that cute,_ she thinks, and goes about her day, making him a snack and putting the kettle on for tea. He beams at her, thanks her for the sandwich, and her heart breaks a little that she can’t keep him here all the time. The cats just adore him after all.

“Snowy says she wants food too, Mizz Figg!” he’s missing a front tooth now and Merlin she can’t handle this level of adorable.

“Snowy gets fed later, dear, she knows that,” She murmurs back absently, digging around in the cupboards for the tea. A quiet exchange of more cat-noises behind her, and he pipes up again.

“Snowy says she needs more because she’s purr-egg-ant. What’s a purr-egg-ant?”

Arabella’s thought process stutters to a halt, grinds gears for a moment, and restarts. She turns, tea box in hand, and stares at Harry, now seated at her kitchen table with a half-kneazle on each side of him. Snowy gazes imperiously from his left, and Tufty leans into his right side. Before she can ask him how on earth he knows that, Snowy makes a grumbling noise and Harry leans over to hear her better. His eyes widen and his mouth takes on the ‘o’ shape of understanding.

“You have BABIES!” It comes out as a delighted shriek, and Arabella winces in sympathy for the tender ears of the kneazles present. Snowy’s ears flick back in annoyance, but she has the audacity to nod in response.

“Harry, dear, do you actually… understand the cats?”

“Well sure, Mizz Figg,” he widens his eyes and those cheap too-big glasses slip down his face a little. “You understand them too, right? That’s why you keep so many! They love you.”

Well that was certainly flattering to hear. Nice to have confirmation, after all. “No dear, I understand their needs and their body language, but I have a feeling what they say sounds like English to you. Is that right?”

Little Harry just gives her a look that on a less polite child could only be described as ‘well, duh.’

“Cats always speak English Mizz Figg, they’re so smart! That’s why you have so many, right? ‘Cuz they speak better than the other animals?”

Arabella decides, in that moment, that Dumbledore can suck a lemon drop with his rules. Harry’s going to accidentally break the Statute of Secrecy himself at this rate, so she needs to share a bit with him. Gathering up the tea things, she crossed the room and sat at the table with him. “Most cats don’t speak the same words humans do, dear, and I keep so many because I’m a breeder of half-kneazles. No, what you can do is a very special kind of magic, you can talk to cats.”

Harry’s sweet face immediately drops and he hunches a little, hugging his sandwich and Tufty closer to him. “Vernon says no such thing as magic,” he mutters darkly, “It doesn’t exist and I shouldn’t talk about it _or else._ ” Tufty grumbles disapprovingly.

“He’s not even supposed to know about magic, the great lump,” Mrs Figg sniffs, overdoing her reaction on purpose and is gratified to see Harry smile a little. “And he’s partially right- you shouldn’t talk about it with people who don’t already know about it. But it does exist, and some people in the world can use it. We call those people witches and wizards.”

“Oh so you have bunches of cats cuz you’re a witch, right? where’s your cauldron?”

“No no dear, I’m actually a Squib. Squibs are when two magical parents have a child who can’t do magic. Often times we go live with the Muggles, who can’t do magic either. There’s also Muggleborns, who have muggle parents but can use magic.”

“And that’s me, right?” Harry bounces, eyes wide.

“No dear, your parents were magical.” She sips her tea, contemplating her next words. “There’s a lot I cannot tell you yet, dear heart, but your parents were magical, they loved you very much, and they did not want to leave you.”

What follows is a difficult conversation for Arabella; tears and reassurances were not her forte. Thankfully kneazles are an empathetic bunch and the whole pack comes to crowd into Harry’s lap, purring reassurances and cuddling insistently. She tells him the whole story, if a bit barebones; details would come with age. But no little boy should believe that his parents were drunks when they were the farthest thing from it.

After a bit, Harry recovers his composure and sniffles, “So what does that have to do with talking cats?”

“Talking _to_ cats, or rather animals in general, is a skill noted in the Potter side of your family,” she explains, “Be a dear and fetch me the photo album on the second shelf.”

Harry obediently fetches the album in question and she relocates them to the living room couch, gently shooing cats out of the way. Snowy gives her a baleful look (and she’ll have to remember to adjust Snowy’s diet now, right) and hops up to the arm of the couch instead of vacating with the rest. Arabella just sighs and cracks open the photo album, revealing old photos of little boys and girls with messy black hair and delighted grins.

“I used to babysit for the Potters when they were a larger family and asking a house elf to mind that many children was an unkindness. I was a lot more spry when the family was big! They explained many things about the family to me so I wouldn’t worry about their children behaving oddly.”

Harry poked the pictures skeptically when they moved, squinting at the edges of the paper. “Pictures are behaving oddly if that counts.”

“No dear, these photos were developed using a special potion, so they remember more than your average Muggle picture. A bit like the telly, isn’t it?” She flipped the pages to a photo of a little boy with his arms flung around the neck of a deer, the animal in question looking incredibly long-suffering and patient in the way only creatures used to small children could be.

“Now then: your ability has two names, actually, and both of them come from people who didn’t really understand language very well. Thiriomilia, which was coined by English wizards who fancied themselves Greek and descended from that line of nobility, is a rough approximation of ‘Beast Tongue’, while Praxitongue was coined by your ancestress Beatrix, also of the Potter line, whose muggle husband likened it to ‘apraxia of speech’. She fancied the name and it stuck, even though the Greek root for apraxia translates to ‘without action.’ Understand so far?”

Harry wrinkles his nose. “Why does it matter what words mean?”

“Well, one day you will learn spells based off old languages, and knowing what the word means will help you understand what the spell is supposed to do and avoid mistakes.”

“Oh.” Tufty gets squeezed closer and grumbles a little. Arabella understands why, he’s the fluffiest of her permanent residents and exceedingly squishable when facing new uncomfortable knowledge.

Knowledge like the fact that your aged neighbor apparently knows more about you than you do, that’s a little uncomfortable to say the least.

“Your father,” she taps the picture and the deer in the image jerks away in disgust, making the photographed boy laugh, “his first gift was with the deer. Potters have a natural affinity with some animals at first, but if they practice they can extend their speech to other species as well. Last time I saw him was before he went to school and he had just mastered speaking to owls. Exposure to more creatures is all you need,” she smiles warmly at him.

‘ _As if you need to speak to other animals,’_ Snowy mutters, disdain obvious in the curl of her lip. ‘ _Tell her I want chicken for dinner, I’m tired of fish.’_

‘ _Noooooo! Fish is way better than chicken!’_ Mr. Tibbles yowls from his corner.

Harry just giggles and turns the page, eager to hear more stories.

~*~

A few days later, after the cats have been fed and the dishes cleaned from tea, Harry asks, “Why do you live here in Surrey, Mizz Figg?”

“Well, when I was a little girl and we determined I had no magic, Papa was determined I should still make a living. The Figgs were good friends with the Potters, who had a great reputation for animal husbandry, much of which can be done whether or not you’re magical. Papa had me apprentice with them while others went to Hogwarts – that’s the magical school, dear – and I learned how to care for a wider variety of creatures than I would have from the one elective class they offer. The babysitting was the hardest part!” she winks conspiratorially at him, and he giggles. “After my apprenticeship was over, Papa used the money Mother had saved up for my dowry and bought me a stock of kneazles and cats alike for breeding, and a small house. About 10 years ago I sold that house and moved here to Surrey at the request of an old goat.” She chuckles at her little joke, ignoring the confused glance Harry gives her. “This was a very silly goat with equally silly instructions, which I have decided to ignore on the basis that they are just too silly to be practical.”

Harry doesn’t think it’s very fair that the cats won’t tell him why they’re laughing, either.

~*~

Miles away in a drafty castle somewhere in Scotland, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore sneezes. Deciding that citrus is the best way to ward off a cold, he pops yet another lemon drop into his mouth.

~*~

At age seven, Arabella decides that Harry is ready to learn some of the magic she’s able to teach: potions.

“I know your auntie has some strange ideas of what qualifies as proper chores for little boys,” she tells him as he scoots a stool up near the gas stove, “but at least it has the benefit of you knowing the basics of cooking.”

There isn't a single explosion all afternoon, which she's thankful for; there are some near misses, which make her thankful she's already gray. 

~*~


End file.
